World Affairs



This is Paradise







You son of Belial

My darling Ma-hinder

If the leading incidents of Merv's disreputable career are to be made public - and not, as some conservative elements might like to suggest, decently hushed up - I suppose Thellie is the woman to bare the facts. I am unable to claim at this time - though I can't promise what may happen in the future, any intimacy with that son of Belial, but I have made it a sort of by the way habit of mine to collect little tit bits on the foremost blot on the Paradisian escutcheon. And what I have is bad enough.

Merv's adventurous spirit so ill tuned to society decorum has caused him on many an occasion to provide the depressed proletariat with a bestial entertainment of the festive sort provided by the early pioneering Christians in the Roman arenas.

His foresight last week in puffing himself to a considerable size by donning roomy white pants and tunic, driving in to the Rupavahini premises in a spanking vehicle owned and maintained by the public and surrounding himself with a smattering of underworld goons and MSD laddies was completely neutralised by the fact that he was compelled to conduct half the days proceedings while wearing a shocking pink paint in all over printed design.

Shayamalee Tudawe would have looked askance at such a lack of dignity in attire. Merv, one could safely wager would not have made it to the fashion pages last week. I mean to say darling even Keerthi Sri would have baulked. Perhaps one could have forgiven the choice of colour Merv had on, but the most sympathetic of fashion critics would have found it difficult to come to terms with the design. It was too bold. Too out there. Too bally loud. In fact watching the whole saga on telly even Thellie had to close her eyes for a bit to let the colour scheme dim a tad.

But what got me thinking dearie was this. Rupavahini afterall is your domain. Merv had only 24 hours before in that crude way of his dropped some absolute gems about Mangy and his family at the opening of the Mahanama Palama in Matara. Not embarrassed to throw good breeding to the winds the fellow scolded the organisers for naming the bridge after Mangy's father Mahanama and suggested a few other names more suited to the Mahinda Chnithana, which I believe included Kurakkan bridge, Kelani Nowana Palama, and Ice Palam. 

It is this speech that Merv had wanted so desperately to have been telecast on the state channel and threw a tantrum when it wasn't. Could Merv have mustered up the nerve to storm the state media notwithstanding what a perv he is unless he got a bit of a nod of approval from you was what Thellie was thinking.

Could it be that you secretly harboured within your bosom a bitterness against Mangy such as one would get in the aftertaste of a dollop of marmalade hastily eaten. After all it was only a day before that you had dialed 'M' for Mangy and spoken to his mummy instead. As if mummy didn't have anything better to do, you hung on the crackling phone wires for an hour. Darling, I recall my teenage years when hanging on the telephone was a good excuse for getting away from the bally homework. In your case with the Medamulane mallis running the show and doing all the home work for you, the aiya has nary to do except twiddle his fingers in the alleyways of Beliatte and plot and plot if not plan and plan.          

Thellie would rather drink than think darling but all this Merv stuff has got me grey matter on a bit of a roll. I could see you chaps were shaken by the rise of the common man against the behaviour of politicians regardless of their affiliations. You would have noticed, while your knees knocked each other, that you, who even accompanied Merv to that oddly constituted legal fellow Denga in order to extricate the chip off the ole block from a lifetime in prison, was also the target of the wrath of the Martyred Proletariat.

The Martyred Pee made no bones about it either. I clearly recall a blunt instrument been made use of in a most appropriate manner. Before you drag off poor Thellie from her lifestyle of champagne and caviar to be a witness in a filthy court for your foul minister, let me hastily add that I saw not the hand nor the face belonging to the hand that dealt the blow so accurately on Merv's much deserved bally nut. 

Though I must say the last time I had observed such a scene was when that late Rajiv chap from across the Palk Strait was inspecting a guard of honour in ole Paradise. Leave it to the Paradisians to spice up the news of an evening is what I always say.

That later Merv had to take up lodgings in the accident service is nobody's fault but his own. No doubt among the many symptoms he invented, there would have been included, like with his son before him, a feeling of feeling vomitish.

And do not worry your pretty head about parliamentary numbers dearie now that you are down to a modest 111. And you know what they say about the 111 in cricket eh? Howzaaat is usually heard reverberating around the pavilion as a dejected batsman hangs his head lower than Tom Dooley.    

But I digress. Merv will always be there for you even unto the ends of the earth and dearie the way you are going the end is nearer than you think. Politically speaking of course And no doubt if he is compelled to be absent from a parliamentary sitting due to feeling vomitish and what not the good sports doctor who now heads the medicina alternative thingamajig will serve Merv a Mendis Special in the form of a dubious medical certificate like he did for Sonny boy not many moons ago.

Anyway dearie this Merv chap has been ranting and raving like a pit bull in a pre school mainly focusing on the independent media. Now that the kept press is getting a dose of his unbearable charm, one is reminded of that fellow Lee Molai...No.that's not it..Niemoller..yes that's it. Martin his first name was if I recall correctly.

You know what I mean darling?..first they came for the Jews but I wasn't a Jew so didn't speak up.then they came for the leading rag and I wasn't a leader so I didn't speak up..then they came for the island but I wasn't an islander so I didn't speak up, then they came for the Maharajahs and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a bally maharajah and then they came for me.by that time there was no one to speak up for anyone.

Makes you think doesn't it?

Tara old sock, I'm off to suck on a Cuban cigar.

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